dressing room and into the storage compartment next door. He thoughtfully fingered the shining nickel of the delivery bicycle which had been his during the past two weeks. He gave it a silent farewell. Then he turned and walked through the shop, stopping at the cashier window to receive his wages from a scowling Smythe.
"You're a rattle-brain, Swift," warned Smythe. "I never should have taken you in here. I got bad reports from the other places you worked at. They said you were too happy-go-lucky and they were right. You better settle down or you'll come to a bad end."
"Yes, sir," agreed Speedy, and for the moment believed that his ex-boss was right.
But out on the sidewalk he cheered up. Well, what was one job more or less? Jobs were easy to get. He had had a million of them. True, he always lost them, but then people were always misunderstanding him. Why, he could get another job that very afternoon. See if he couldn't.
With a sudden inspiration he pulled the baseball extra out of his pocket and turned to the want columns. He sat down on the bread box in front of the grocery store next door to Smythe's and read the closely set print of the "Male Help Wanted" news. There was only one that appealed to him:
